


How I lived a childhood in snow

by robotwitch



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 11:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotwitch/pseuds/robotwitch
Summary: Winter is harsh and lonely, but surrounded by family the cold cannot touch Vox Machina's hearts.





	How I lived a childhood in snow

Dark grey clouds gather over Zephrah, swirling in great and wonderous spirals.  The blizzard crashes against the mountain with howling gales, keeping Keyleth awake.

Not scared.  She could never be afraid of the torrent of nature’s power, especially not the wind.  Keyleth is kept awake by the thrill of the storm and the anticipation of what morning will bring.

If she was older or more skilled, she might dare to ride her glider through the snow and sleet, but for the moment she pulls the blanket up to her chin and tries to imagine the wonderland which will await her when the blizzard has passed over.

Her dreams transform her into a snowflake, gently blowing on the breeze across a landscape of snow and ice, settling on the shoulder of a reindeer.  His antlers reach up to the light grey sky just like mom’s, elegant and proud.

She is roused by a similar sight and a smile as warm as the cup of cocoa mom uses to tempt her out from under the covers.  “You won’t believe your eyes, my darling.”

Keyleth blinks in amazement.  The mountainside is coated in a sheet of ice; the forests beyond a frozen tundra waiting to be explored.

Beaming, cold air slips through the gaps left by the teeth she lost the week before.  Eagerly, “Can we go gliding over the pass?”

“Better to see it on foot, don’t you think?”

She’s loathe to destroy the pristine snow, but Keyleth nods and hurries to finish her breakfast.

Fastening her cloak and pulling on her mittens, Keyleth wonders out loud, “Is dad going to come with us?”

“He will once he’s finished seeing to the damage done by the storm.  Don’t ever forget nature is as dangerous as it is beautiful.”

Keyleth nods dutifully.

“As are you, my darling,” mom adds as an afterthought.

They hold hands as they step out into the snowbanks.  Keyleth’s leg is practically engulfed in a single step.  Mom can’t help but chuckle as Keyleth’s feet sink step after step.

“I wish I was an arctic hare,” Keyleth laments as the snow begins melting in her boots.

“Why not be, Keyleth?  It’s as good a time as any to practice,” mom encourages.

Keyleth lets mom’s hand go and slips into the smaller form of a hare; her nose twitches in the cold air.  She hops after mom, pausing every so often to examine the tracks they’ve left behind.

Human and hare suddenly turn to hare and predator.  Keyleth rises on her rear legs, her long ears standing alert.  She turns slowly to see a large grey wolf in mom’s place, but it makes no lunge towards her.  Mom’s bright green eyes shine in its regal face.

Mom howls, beckoning Keyleth to follow.  She does, bounding forward, no longer propelled by feet adapted for leaping, but for the chase; a pup to its mother.  Keyleth howls in response and the race begins.

Weaving in and out of the tress, snow flies up as their paws hit the ground with confidence.

Picking up speed, Keyleth isn’t prepared for her paws to land on solid, slippery ice instead of the powdery snow.  She skids across the surface, unable to gain any traction.  Frantically, Keyleth attempts to dig her claws into the ice to stop herself before smashing into the snowdrift.  She closes her eyes as impact is immanent.

But it doesn’t come.  Instead, she is lifted by the scruff of her neck and placed gently onto the bank.

Keyleth cocks her head when she opens her eyes, expecting the wolf version of mom, but is greeted by the sleek, silver vision of dad’s wolf form.  She could never mistake the traces of amusement around his eyes.

He nudges her with his snout to get back up then gracefully leaps onto the ice, twirling and spinning with practiced ease.

Mom fast joins him, barking enthusiastically.

Prepared, but still unsure of the slippery surface, Keyleth puts a cautious paw on the ice.  Then another and another, until all four wobble beneath her.

She spins, and mom and dad spin around her.  Snow starts to fall again, swirling from the sky, not harsh like the blizzard, but softly.  Keyleth yips and howls with joy.

All too soon, her power wears off.  Keyleth’s limbs escape her: two arms, two legs again.  Red hair spills from her head onto her shoulders, but she’s still laughing.

Dad changes back into himself, “Your nose is redder than a spring of holly, my daughter.  We should go home before you catch cold.”

He holds out his hand and lifts Keylth from the ground.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?” she begs.

“Almost certainly.  Your shape-changing is improving every day.  You’ll be as strong as your mother one day.”

“More so,” mom emphasizes, her antlers crowning her head once more.

Keyleth gazes at her with wonder.  Mom was chosen for the Aramenté, there’s no way she could ever hope to match her strength.

Giving mom a quick hug to disguise the tears forming behind her eyes.  She’s going to miss mom so much when she leaves to begin her journey.

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

\----------

Try as he might, the gnome barmaid manages to purposefully and flauntingly avoid his gaze.

A challenge.

Scanlan’s interest is piqued.

His unsuccessful attempts to catch the barmaid’s eye aside, the Winter’s Crest festival is looking to be the best he’s attended yet.  Kymal knows how to throw a party, a talent Scanlan can appreciate.  Especially when it means Dr. Dranzel’s Traveling Troupe is booked solid for a fortnight.

Thus far, this has been his favorite joint they’ve played.  The drinks are complementary, the audience enthusiastic, and the ladies…

Well, not all of them are immune to his dashing, debonair smile.  With the one exception, most are quite susceptible and extraordinarily lovely.

But Scanlan’s got eyes for one woman tonight.  She tosses her golden hair flirtatiously at the table of young gentlemen she’s serving.  Scanlan recognizes the technique as a ploy for larger tips, even if her customers don’t; it attracts him to her even more.

Scanlan’s captivated, watching her weave through the throng and charm her customers one by one with a skill and determination equal to only his own.

Dranzel stomps his foot hard on the stage, snapping Scanlan’s trance like a twig.  Their song is almost over and Scanlan nearly missed his cue.  Watching for Dranzel’s signal, Scanlan holds his final note for an impossibly long time.

If his performance doesn’t impress the barmaid, he’s got a few other tricks he can try.  After all, it wouldn’t be Winter’s Crest without a sprig of mistletoe up his sleeve.

With a nod of his head, Dranzel concludes the song and lets the applause wash over them.

Dranzel’s laugh booms even over the roar of the crowd, “Thank you!  Thank you!  You’re too kind!  We’ll be back after a short break, but do feel free to continue showing your appreciation while we’re off stage!”  He sweeps his top hat off his head, offering it to be filled to the brim with tips.  “And we’ll be right back!”

There’s more applause before the tavern noise is filled with the joyous, raucous cheer of the season once more.

Scanlan glances over the bar, searching for his waitress, but she is lost among the patrons or in the kitchen.  Laying his flute beside Dranzel’s fiddle, Scanlan adjusts his tunic; he must look his best in case _she_ spots him as he wades through his adoring fans.

A large hand grasps his shoulder, “You get lost at the end of that last number?”

Scanlan grins fiendishly, “Lost in the beauty of a young woman.”

Dranzel chortles, “I should have known.  Keep up the tempo in the back half of the set and we may just make more coin in tips tonight than our booking fee.”

“Not to worry, Doctor.  Once I’ve got the lady in question’s attention, I’ll be on top of my game.”

“I’ve no doubt about that, Scanlan, my boy.”  With a clap on the shoulder, Dranzel tends to his own intermission business.

Without so much as a glance at the stage, the barmaid darts past, delivering a round of drinks to a particularly rowdy table.  She chuckles at their crude attempts to flirt and gives them a wink as she slips their coin into her apron.

Scanlan can feel the grin spreading across his face as he dives into the crowd after her.

She’s pooling her tips with the other waitresses when he catches up.

Loudly, “Who do I lodge a complaint about the service with?”

Hand on her hip, his target stares him down, no trace of amusement.  “You got a problem with free drinks for the band, Mr. –”

“Shorthalt.  Scanlan Shorthalt.  And yes, I do, when they’re not being served to me by the most beautiful woman here tonight.”

Not even a flush.  She’s good.

“They don’t hire groupies here – just barmaids.”

“If I was looking for a groupie, I wouldn’t have had an excuse to introduce myself.”  Scanlan watches intently for any signs of giving in and flirting back, like she does with the customers.  “Well, if you’re too swamped to keep the talent happy, I’d settle for a name.”

“You gonna report me to my manager?” she crooks a brow.

“So I can ask to see you after the show.”

At last, a sly smile slips across her face, “You’re charming.”

“Am I?  I hadn’t noticed.”

She laughs, not the kind she uses to tease customers, but genuine and true.  Scanlan finds himself swept up in it as the wind sweeps up the snow from the ground.  She could be the one.

“A little too charming, if you ask me.  Wouldn’t you rather spend Winter’s Crest with your family, Mr. Shorhalt, instead of some stranger?”

His mouth opens and closes, doubly dumbfounded.  First, he can’t believe he gave her his real name; he usually lies, tells women Scanlan Shorthalt is a stage name, and makes up some fantasy man to give them the night of their lives.  Second, what he wouldn’t give to spend Winter’s Crest with his mother – play her every little tune he’s written in her memory.

Swallowing, “Nope.  No one.”

“That’s a shame.”

There’s a stirring in the tavern and the retuning of instruments.  Zedd taps a few beats out to herald the band’s immanent return to the stage.

Picking up her tray, “Looks like you’re back on.”

“Wait, I didn’t get your name!” Scanlan calls after her, but she’s swallowed by the crowd.

Scanlan climbs back on the stage, picks up his flute, and waits for the set to resume.  As he cleans the mouthpiece, a slip of paper is dropped into Dranzel’s expectant hat.  The barmaid gives him a wink and quickly moves on.

Snatching up the note, it reads: _My shift’s over after your set.  Ask for Sybil._

More than once he catches Sybil’s eye over the crowd and a smile from her, which would take any lesser man’s breath away, but does just the opposite.  Chest puffing out, extra air pours into his lungs, which he pours into song after song.

He’s doesn’t even care that he looks a mess and is drenched in sweat by the end, Sybil still beams when he asks for her at the kitchen door.

They settle by the roaring fire and order a round and then another.  Sybil laughs easily, no longer guarded and on shift, and it’s like the clear ringing of bells every time she does.

Scanlan barely notices the emptying bar until Sybil glances around and shivers.

“It must be later than I realized.  I ought to be getting home.”  She pulls away, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

Scanlan panics.  They’re too close for her to leave now.  Almost singing, he blurts out, “But Sybil, it’s cold outside.”

She rolls her eyes.

Taking her already icy hands in his, “You’d freeze out there.  It’s up to your knees out there.”

“You’re being a bit dramatic, aren’t you, Scanlan?”  Still, she leans in closer, “Convince me.”

\----------

The snow sinks beneath him as Grog lands with a thud on the city street.  Not that is hurts compared to Kevak’s fists, still the reminder makes him grumpy.

Not that he would do anything different.  Kevdak is a bully.  Beating Wilhand would have been wrong and weak; he was so small and defenseless at Kevdak’s feet.  After all, if he hadn’t done it, Grog wouldn’t have met Pike.  Wouldn’t be living with her and Wilhand in Westruun.

Wouldn’t be happy for a change.

Only, for the moment, Pike and Wilhand have forced him out of the house to wait in the dirty, slushy slush to wait to for something, he’s not sure what.  He doesn’t understand why they wouldn’t let him help or why they insist it’s a surprise.  He’s not even totally sure he knows what Winter’s Crest is.

So Grog mopes.  He picks up clumps of snow and mushes them in his fists.  He is so absorbed by his foul mood and the snow in his hands, he doesn’t notice the approaching gang of teenage boys until one of them kicks a stone in his face.

Not glancing up, Grog growls dangerously, warning them to get back.

The boys laugh and taunt him instead, “Too scared to fight back?”

No.  Just trying to control his rage like Wilhand’s been coaching him.  He resisted at first, but the little gnome is right about how much calmer he feels every day – how much happier than he was with the herd.

“Hey!” the clear leader steps forward with a cruel smirk.  Shoving Grog’s shoulder, “I asked you a question!”

Grog meets his eye, but says nothing.

“Ugh.  You’re probably too dumb to even understand.”

That rouses something in Grog.  Something he can’t push down – won’t push down.  He engages, “What did you just say?”

“It speaks!” the leader calls back to his lackeys over his shoulder.

While his head is turned, Grog rises to his full height.  He’s not even full grown and he towers over the boy.  The boy’s eyes grow wide with fear when his head comes face to face with Grog’s torso.

“I asked you to repeat yourself.”

Daunted, but putting on a show for his friend, “I called you a giant – dumb –”

Unconsciously, Grog raises a fistful of snow and shoves it in the kid’s mouth as it opens to hurl another insult at him.  “I’m sorry.  I couldn’t hear that.  Wanna say it again?”

The leader coughs and spits.  Wiping his mouth, “You’re a freak!”

This time Grog swipes the side of the boy’s head with another handful of slushy snow then grabs him by the collar.  Grog laughs now, none of the kid’s friends stepping forward to join him.

“What’s the matter?  You all scared of a big, dumb freak?”

“Hey!  What’s going on out here?”

Every head whips around at the sound of Pike’s little shout.  Hands on her hips, she intimidates the hell out of Grog, but the other boys start sputtering and laughing again, even the leader.

She ignores them and calmly lays a hand on Grog’s arm, “Let him go.  He’s not worth it.”

Grog relaxes his grip and the kid takes three steps back, just safely out of range.

“Looks like the idiot’s mom can control him,” he shouts back to his gang.  To Pike, “Careful not to let this moron off his leash again.”

Pike turns a glare on the kid which Grog has been on the receiving end of a few times.  It terrifies the hell out of Grog; this kid is the idiot for not taking another step back.

“You’re rude and a bully.”

“Yeah so?  What are you gonna do about it?”

Scooping up a fistful of snow, Pike lobs it at the boy’s face, “Don’t.  Ever.  Make.  Fun.  Of.  Grog.  In.  Front. Of. Me.  Let’s get ‘em, Grog!”

Pike emphasizes each word with a snowball.  Grog gathers as much snow as he can and tosses it toward the gang as they scatter and take cover.  Safe in the alley, the boys start hurling a wave back at them.

One, two, seven, five?  Against them.  The numbers aren’t fair, but Pike fights like a monster and Grog – well, he’s Grog.  Nobody fights better.

A snowball with a rock in it strikes Grog in the leg; he tries not to flinch at the still healing wound left from Kevdak’s beating.  Not that the gang of boys notices his momentary weakness or worse, where is sore spot is.

Pike however, dashes past, placing a hand on Grog’s thigh.  There’s a surge of warmth and it feels instantly better – stronger.  Just like she promised while Grog was in a haze of pain and recovery.

He’s stronger now because of her.  Stronger alongside of her.  He can’t believe he scoffed when she said they would be friends, but Pike was right.  They are friends; she’s the best friend that he’s ever had.

Together it doesn’t take long to pummel the shit out of the gang of teenagers with snowballs.  A few of them run away screaming like children.  Grog’s last snowball explodes on the back of their retreating leader and he falls face first into the street.

Pike cheers, “That’ll teach you to mess with Grog Strongjaw!”

“Or Pike Trickfoot!” Grog lifts her onto his shoulders.  She really is such a tiny thing, but she packs a punch like a true warrior.

“Come on, Grog.  Let’s go home.  There are a few finishing touches that Pawpaw Wilhand and I need your help with.”

It’s warm and dry inside, not that Grog isn’t used to the cold, but it’s the kind of welcome he’s starting to recognize as home.  Only now it’s decked with garlands and ribbons and candles.

It’s pretty, though there are a couple things Grog notices, which are strange, even to him.  The furniture has been moved to the side, leaving an empty space in the corner.  Odder still, the altar is missing its statue of Sarenrae.

“Oh good.  You’re back.  I was wondering where the two of you got off to,” Wilhand steps through from the kitchen.   Grinning mischievously, “It’s getting dark, we better hurry.”

Wilhand totters along and Grog puts Pike back on his shoulders as he leads them to the outskirts of Westruun.  He walks straight up to a farmer and shakes his hand.

“It’s right around the house.  You sure you can get it back to your house without the cart?”

“Got all the muscle we need, Reg.  Thank you!”

Grog glances up at Pike, confused, but she’s beaming, delighted by whatever’s happening.  On the side of the farmhouse leans a giant evergreen tree.

Wilhand pats Grog’s arm, “Wouldn’t be Winter’s Crest without a tree in the house.  Think you can carry it home for us, Grog?”

“Not a problem!” Grog boasts.

The tree is almost too tall to fit in the Trickfoots’ little house, but the three set to decorating it with vigor.  In the final stages, Wilhand pulls the statue of Sarenrae out from wherever it was hiding.

“Would you like to do the honors, Grog?”

In Wilhand’s grasp the statue looked unbreakable; in Grog’s, he is terrified of crushing it in his giant hand.  But neither of the gnomes could possibly reach the top of the tree.

Hoisting Pike onto his shoulders again, he passes off the statue.  “You do it, buddy.”

\----------

“Hey!  You, girl!  Get that bear out of here!”

“He’s really gentle!  He won’t hurt anyone!”  Vex argues, her hand reaching for the scruff on Trinket’s neck.

He’s only just recently gotten too big to carry; as such, this is the third tavern they’ve been denied entry into.  As if Trinket is any dirtier or fearsome than the hunting dogs gathered before the mantle.  Ridiculous human double standard.

As much as she doesn’t care to admit it, any establishment in Syngorn would allow Trinket in.

The barkeep is adamant, “Take him outside, girl!”

In a flash of anger, Vex flips her middle finger at him, turns on her heel, and storms out; growling, Trinket follows suit.  Outside, Vex shivers, readjusting to the temperature.  Her breath fogs, as she quietly seethes.  Trinket gently nudges her hand.

“Don’t worry, buddy.  We’ll find a place to eat.”  Looking up and down the street, “Where the shit has Vax gone off to?”

Trinket groans unknowingly, preferring to stay faithfully at Vex’s side instead of wandering off like her twin is so prone to do.

“Come on.  This way,” and she turns in the direction of the marketplace.

People flinch away from her and Trinket still, but they cannot push them off the streets.  Vex tries her best to ignore her rumbling stomach as they pass the butchers and hunters.  Even if haggled, the prices are far more than she can afford; all of them with pocket too tempting to pick.  She hopes Vax isn’t getting himself into too much trouble.  Wherever he is.

Weighing the pros and cons of just trying to haggle, Vex smacks her forehead, “What am I doing?  I can catch something on my own.”

She was always an excellent shot at school, but it was not an easy transition to put her skills into practice in the wild.  Traps are effective, though looking her prey in the eye makes the kill all the harder.  Ensuring a good clean death with a single arrow is difficult when her hands are like ice, but it is lighter on her conscience.

The hunt is quicker with Trinket than on her own.  Now she may wait in a tree as Trinket herds their prey into the clearing.  The bow string looses an arrow with a twang and the deer falls prone to the ground.

It smells amazing over the open fire.  Trinket licks his teeth eagerly.

“Not to worry.  There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Vex’s ears twitch at the sound of rustling in the woods behind them; her hand lights to her bow.

Calling out into the darkness, “Vax?  Is that you?”

“Damn, Stubby.  How’d you know?”

“No one else is stupid enough to try sneaking up on me.”

“That dinner?”  Vax settles beside the campfire, warming his hands.

Vex folds her arms, “You can’t have any until you tell me where you’ve been all day.  I’ve been worried sick.”

“Clearly,” he gestures to her kill.  “Looks to me like you’ve been worried about your stomach.”

True, the hunt did distract her from her concern for his whereabouts, but he’s been wandering away more and more since they found the smoldering ruin of Byroden.  Some days she worries he’ll wander away and never come back.

But Vex won’t let Vax win this argument.  He is in the wrong for disappearing without telling her and he knows it.

Her jaw sets, “You can go catch your own dinner, if you don’t tell me and I’ll give the rest to Trinket.”

The bear’s head raises, perking up at the prospect of a very large dinner.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

Vax shivers in his threadbare cloak.  It’s been torn and repaired so many times, Vex is certain it has no warmth left to give.  They should have replaced it last winter, but her cloak was just as bad or worse.  Vax forewent a new cloak so they could afford one for her twice as good as what she had before.  They should have made enough by now to replace his, but no one will hire them.

Vex kneels beside him and wraps her arm around his shoulders, “No one else is going to look out for us, so you can’t expect me not to worry.”

His face squirms to prevent himself from crying?  Laughing?  Rolling his eyes?  Most likely the third option, but Vex can’t quite tell.

She playfully slaps his cheek and Vax yelps.

“Why are your hands always cold, Vex’ahlia?”

“Pardon me for spending all afternoon hunting.”

“Yeah… about that.”  Vax rummages through his pack and extracts something made of dark brown leather.  “I got you these – that’s where I was.”

Once in hand, Vex knows instantly what they are.  Shooting gloves; soft, sturdy, warm.  She slips them on for size – they’re perfect, of course.

“The leathersmith was surprised by my slender fingers.  I told him it was all that delicate sewing work mother used to enlist our help with.”

Tears were already threatening to fall, but now they stream down her cheeks, “Where did you get the money for these?”

He shrugs noncommittally, “Can I have something to eat now, Vex’ahlia?”

“Yes, of course, darling,” she croaks.

Early in the morning, careful not to wake Vax and gently dissuading Trinket from following, Vex makes her way back to the marketplace.  Vendors ready their stalls for business, but Vex ignores them all, looking for one in particular.

The tailor is not quite prepared for a fully awake and ready-to-haggle Vex’ahlia.  He shows her the selection of cloaks he has available, all of thick wool; exactly what Vax needs.

Selecting a deep blue one, Vex makes an offer with a wink.  The tailor doesn’t know what hit him.

Though she clearly got a better deal, Vax has always had an unnatural ability to beat her to the punch.

\----------

Candlelight refracts off their crystal glasses as they are raised high in toast.

Father stands, “Another year gone by.  Our toils may not always prove fruitful, but we persevere, one year after the next.  That is what makes us strong.  May Pelor’s blessing be upon you in the new year.”

“Here.  Here,” Keeper Yennen agrees, nodding his head in father’s direction.

Following father’s lead, family and guests tip their glasses to their lips and the feast begins proper.  Perhaps Percy gulps his wine down a little too quickly, coughing just a little, but mother did promise he would be allowed an early retreat so long as he put in an acceptable appearance.

Next to him, Julius piles his plate high and converses convivially with Chancellor Desnay.  By comparison Percy’s plate practically looks empty, but then these are the sorts of events Julius has been schooled for; Percy merely tolerates them.  He is grateful mother recognizes his indifference.

Mandatory attendance was easier to bear when he was seated at the far end of the table with the children.  He could hide a book in his lap and ignore the nonsense surrounding him there.  There no one took notice of him or asks him open-ended questions about his plans for the future.

His one solace nearer to the head of the table is Professor Anders’ company, though he is currently occupied in a tedious conversation about Whitestone’s economic prospects for trade with Eamon or Wildemount.

He catches Percy watching him and jokingly rolls his eyes.

Gods, this night will likely never end.

Percy shifts his gaze to mother, hoping she will signal it has been an appropriate length of time, but her attention is called to the end of the table, where Oliver and Whitney are causing some commotion.  Percy calculates he will be required to sit here at least another ten minutes while she settles matters.

He calls for more wine and focuses back on his dinner, nearly dropping his fork when he is kicked sharply under the table.

Across from him, Vesper gives Percy a stern eye.  Mouthing, “Can’t you try not to look so miserable?”

“Mind your own business, Vesper,” he whispers back.

It’s not that he begrudges the celebration of New Dawn; it’s that he begrudges any large gathering where he feels as if he is on display.

If anyone truly cares what he plans to do with his future, it is to continue his studies.  Possibly at university in Othanzia or Marquet.  It would be fascinating to see and learn what else Exandria has to offer.

But for now, he is merely the third child of Frederickstein and Johanna de Rolo.  He might as well not even have a name.

The ruckus at the foot of the table dies down and mother returns to her seat.  She sighs when she spots Percy looking at her expectantly, but nods.

Percy wastes no time excusing himself and disappearing into the library.  It’s chilled in here, by comparison to the dining hall with its roaring fire, but it’s quiet, which Percy far prefers.  He pulls his favorite armchair closer to the mantle, passing the large window looking out onto the blanketed Whitestone.

There’s an eeriness to the still falling snow on a deep blue backdrop, but there is comfort in it too.  He contemplates the silent snowfall a moment longer then returns to situating himself for an evening of reading.

But someone else slipped into his chair while he was distracted.

“Cassandra, what are you doing here?  Go back to the dinner.”

“Mother said I should keep you company.”

Percy scoffs.  He doesn’t want any company other than that of his book, but it serves to reason mother wouldn’t let him spend the evening completely alone.

“Fine, but that’s my chair.”

“How will I read with you if I’m in another chair?”

Sighing, “Pick another book.”

Cassandra’s not a crier.  None of them are really and her lip doesn’t betray the slightest tremor at Percy’s rejection, but she does give him a look at sharp as knives.

Of all his siblings, she is the most like him.  In temperament and pursuits; in preferences and solitary nature.  He supposes if mother insists he must have company, he could do far worse than Cassandra.

“I want to know what you’re reading.”

“It’s in Celestial.  You won’t be able to read it over my shoulder anyway.”

“Then read it to me.  Practice your spoken Celestial.”

Percy has no response.  He rarely has the opportunity to practice Celestial, perhaps it is not such a bad idea to read aloud then translate for her.

Still, he will not give in to all her demands, “Alright, I’ll read to you, but you have to give my chair back.”

She looks about the room and points behind him, “What if we pushed the sofa nearer to the fire instead?”

Percy cannot think of a good enough reason to deny her request sighs again, “Okay.  I’ll move it.  You get the fire going.”

Removing his dress coat, Percy returns the armchair to its original position and pushes the sofa in front of the fireplace, now warming the room.  He sits and thumbs through the pages of the book, searching for the place he last left off, when Cassandra lights a candle on the small table next to him, lessening the strain on his eyes.

Slipping off her shoes, Cassandra curls her legs under her dress and leans her head on Percy’s shoulder.

Percy wraps his free arm about Cassandra, “Ready?”

Cassandra nods and Percy reads in the ethereal tongue, tales of mystical planes and heroic beings.  His voice is low and soothing, even to his own ear.  His eyelids droop heavily after a while, the warmth of the fire settling in his chest.

Pausing, he looks down at Cassandra, snoring lightly.  With a soft thud, Percy closes the book and removes his glasses, sleep folding him into its gentle embrace.

\----------

“To Pike Trickfoot!  Dragonslayer!”

Everyone’s tankards clash together like the ringing of steel in battle.  Nobody cares that the ale sloshes over the rims.

Pike shouts the next toast, “To the Super High Intensity Team!”

“To the SHITs!” Scanlan follows up before anyone else can.

Grog, Percy, and the twins roar with laughter and echo him, though Keyleth and Tiberius look perturbed at the continued use of the name they _all_ came up with.  Tiberius, in particular, ruffles his crest in irritation.

Pike leans into his side, “Oh come on, Tibsy.  It’s just a joke.”

“Yes, but what happens when we start gaining more notoriety?  A Stormwind could never demean themselves to be a part of such a group.  And think of Keyleth’s position.”

“You know what you need, Tiberius?” Vax interjects.  “You need a real drink.”

“I’m perfectly fine with water, thank you.”

Pike catches Vax’s eye and they shake their heads and shrug.  There’s no point in trying to convince him otherwise.  But that’s just Tiberius as they’ve come to know and love the stick up his butt.  As Pike’s come to know and love each of them.

Who would’ve guessed when they showed up at Pawpaw Wilhand’s looking for Grog how close they would all become.  She never thought she was meant for the adventuring life, but she’s found a place among this group of misfits; she belongs with them more than she ever did with her family, excluding Pawpaw Wildhand, of course.

After all, she may have landed the killing blow on Skysunder, but she couldn’t have done it without them.  She swears to Sarenrae she means it.

Thinking of Pawpaw Wilhand, Pike realizes she and Grog should let him know they’re alright.

Pike hiccups loudly.

Then again, maybe that can wait until after they’ve finished celebrating.  They killed a _dragon_ for Sarenrae’s sake!  They deserve a night off.

“What about you, Keyleth darling?” Vex slips in next to her brother.

“What about me?” Keyleth asks spooked.

“Are you going to try something a little stronger than water tonight?”

“I – uh – I – maybe?”

Pike pats Keyleth’s hand, “It’s alright if you don’t, but if you wanted to try something new tonight…”

“Drinking contest!”  Grog bangs his fist on the table, startling everyone.

“I don’t know, Grog.  That might be a _little bit_ unfair.”

“You scared, Scanlan?” Pike teases.

“I’m a little man!”

“A little short on balls,” Percy snorts into his tankard.

That settles it and Grog’s drinking contest gets underway.  They order another round of pints for everyone.

Tiberius is eliminated on principle; he mutters to himself and sticks his nose into his spellbook to best ignore their ‘tomfoolery’.  Grog quickly grabs Tiberius’s neglected tankard and puts himself in the lead, two pints.

Keyleth take her first sip to uproarious applause then eagerly takes her second and third.

Pike tosses back her first round as quick as Grog.  It pays to have had a lot of practice keeping pace with him.  Of course, no one took into account how drunk they all were before starting their competition; whatever advantage he would usually have may not apply.

The second round comes and the toasts start again.

“To Pike!  Dragonslayer!” is cheered at least four times more, which Pike lets go to straight to her head.  Chugging her pint, she echoes, “To me!”

“To Westruun!” Keyleth half-screams, waving her arms in the air and knocking Percy’s glasses from his nose.  “And not being completely frozen over by a dragon!”

By the fourth round, they cut Keyleth off, preventing her from becoming a danger to herself and others.

Vex and Vax hold up relatively well, despite their scrawniness, but they are even more prone to bickering than usual; this time over who dealt the most damage during the battle.

“Guys, who cares?” Scanlan practically slumps over the table.  “Pike’s the dragonslayer.”

On that they can all agree.

With the fifth round, Scanlan attempts to lead them all in a rousing rendition of “Winter’s Crest is All Around,” but he keeps changing the words to be about Pike.

She is flush with embarrassment and drink.  He certainly can go on about the curve of her cheek and the strength of her magic.  But she smiles and laughs along with everyone else.  He can’t really be serious about all his flirting.

All that aside, Pike is the happiest she’s been in so long.  When Pawpaw Wilhand brought her to Westruun.  When Grog first came to live with them.  But this, finding new friends – vanquishing a dragon!

Even without slaying the dragon, they were having a wonderful time at the festival.  They’ve had so many adventures already and have so many more to come.

It’s like Sarenrae’s reached out and touched her soul.  Blessed her with this joy.

She turns and watches the rest of the bar, wondering if they can feel it all too.  How special this time is and how lucky they are to be spending it with loved ones.

Out the window, Pike spies light flurries of snow.  Not a flash blizzard caused by a detonating magic crystal, but true and beautiful.

Quietly, she steps away from the table and out into the cold, but her heart is warm with Sarenrae’s light and the love of her friends.

Clutching her holy symbol, Pike lifts her face to the sky and prays.

“Trying to catch snowflakes on your tongue, Pike?” Grog asks bluntly.

Everyone has followed her outside; Pike feels so light, she could fly!

“I used to do that all the time as a kid!” Keyleth cheerfully recalls and unabashedly sticks her tongue out to catch some.

Pike catches Keyleth’s hand and does the same.  Scanlan reaches for her other hand and Vax to his until all their hands are linked.

Ain’t nothing gonna stop the SHITs.

\----------

Black feathers ruffle in the winter winds of Whitestone.  He remembers them well.

He remembers the cold and the hardship.  He remembers the tragedy and the heartbreak of this place all too well.  It is strange he should miss such a dismal place so much.

Soaring through the trees, out the forest, the castle appears like a beacon of warmth and light and hope.  Not at all the place he first visited.  Though he doesn’t think it ever looked quite so beautiful as when blanketed by snow, glowing against the darkness.  Vax’ildan wishes he could share in it.

He perches himself on a windowsill overlooking the dining hall, brimming with good cheer and love.  And the guests haven’t even arrived.  But lingering near the door to the kitchens, seeing to the final details, Vax spots Vex’ahlia.

He chokes up seeing how beautiful she is dressed in the blues and purples of Whitestone; her hair carefully arranged in a long braid with snowdrops woven in.  She never would have been able to accomplish it on her own, he wonders who she trusts to braid it now – if the snowdrops have replaced the feathers permanently or just for tonight.

It isn’t long before a brigade of three waist-high rascals are tugging at her skirts, dragging her away.  Twin sisters and their brother.

Johanna, Elaina, and little Vax’ildan de Rolo.

Each of them with names as long as their father’s; even in death, Vax can’t be bothered to memorize them.  But he’s certain Vex delights in using their full names in order to scold and cherish them.

Vax waits on the ledge for Vex, but she does not immediately return.  She is preceded by the Chamber of Whitestone; Cassandra looking lovely with her head held high, a barely visible scar left on her neck from those days long past.

Behind her the Grand Poobah de Doink towers at least two heads above everyone in the room; he keeps his head high without even trying.  The big guy doesn’t appear to have changed at all, except for his formal attire.  Someone managed to get Grog in a fitted dress shirt and waxed his beard.  Though it doesn’t appear as though anyone could take his tour guide hat away from him.

More file in.  Vax keeps his eyes peeled for anyone he recognizes; it is heart-wrenching how so many of their friends accept Vex’s invitation.

Allura and Kima arrive promptly, what looks to be much to Kima’s annoyance, but she dutifully stays at Allura’s side.

Zahra and Kash arrive with their own kid, Griffin, in tow.  The young boy looks about sour as his father, but Vax would bet anything Zahra’s got a firm handle on both of them.  Her cousin, Lilith, is not far behind them.

He is surprised by the next arrivals, already in deep conversation with one another as they enter the dining room.  Tary chatters on about the Darrington Foundation to Shaun.  Vax can’t recall if they ever met, but is glad to see the bonds of friendship form between those he proudly claimed as such.

At last, he is greeted by the sight of an army of gnomes.  Scanlan and Pike enter, arm in arm, with two very little ones by the hands, Sickle and Laurel.  Kaylie carries a third, Juniper, while JB escorts old Wilhand.  And it’s as if the life of the party has arrived.  Grog immediately runs to them, swallowing all eight of them in a giant hug.

The elf behind them nearly trips over the pile, but is caught in time by a younger elven woman with a familiar snake belt.  Velora holds onto Syldor’s arm for steadiness, owlbear feathers adorn her hair just like they did the last day Vax saw her.  He hopes she causes Syldor as much grief as he and Vex did.

But then Vex is also at his side.  And unless Vax is mistaken, there are traces of amusement on their father’s face.  For Vex and Velora’s sake, the ice which once kept Vax and Vex out of Syldor’s heart has melted away.

He nods in the direction of the door, where Percy waits, holding two bundles.  The newborn twins, a girl and boy.  Whitney and Oliver.

Vax wonders if they fought over who would come first into the world as he knows he and Vex must have.

For all Freddie’s missteps during their adventuring together, Vax has only seen the sturdy husband and dependable father Percy’s become.  He looks tired, but happy, and a peck on the cheek from Vex only makes him brighten.

Syldor offers to take one of the twins off his hands, and Velora the other, when Johanna, Elaina, and little Vax’ildan charge past.  The girls run straight into Pike and Scanlan’s joyful hugs and admire the babies.  Little Vax’ildan tugs at Grog’s beard and the goliath feints pain.

Though Vax knows how gentle Grog is with all children, it warms him to see a love of pranks and teasing Vox Machina’s biggest child has passed on to his namesake.  And that Grog adores him for it.

In the corner, there is a quiet pair who have thus far escaped Vax’s notice.  Korrin and Kerr wear similar somber expressions, watching the door expectantly.  Even an idiot could guess who for.

Spreading his wings, Vax braves the wild winds again.  He flies over the dark path from the castle to the city, swooping low between the rooftops.

The Sun Tree’s barren branches reach out to the grey sky, Keyleth standing beneath them as though they could shelter her from the cold.  Vax lands among them, unnoticed.

Her voice is practically carried away in the wind, “How’s the winter treating you, Sun Tree?”

Its bark groans and creeks in response.

Keyleth half-chuckles, “Worse winters?”

More moaning.

“Yes, I suppose they do all pass.  Some just last so much longer than others,” she laments.

The Sun Tree groans again; for a long while this time.  Keyleth listens patiently, tears silently spilling down her cheek.

Finally smiling, putting on a brave face, “And we will all bloom again.  Thanks, Sun Tree.”

Her fingers slide down the sacred tree in farewell, but she does not immediately turn towards the castle.

Vax caws.

Keyleth’s head turns in his direction; her mournful smile slipping only slightly.  But her voice is strong, “I see you found me even this far north.  What brings you here, tonight of all nights?”

Vax beats his wings slowly back in the direction of the castle, keeping an eye below to make sure Keyleth is following.  He caws twice again and lands on her shoulder.

“You too?”  Keyleth strokes his breast with her finger.  “Once I’m in there and surrounded by my family, I’ll be fine.  I just needed a minute.”

He nips her finger affectionately.

“I knew you’d understand.”

Keyleth strides through the gate, through which Vax cannot pass to be with them all.

Vax returns to his place on the windowsill and watches as Keyleth is embraced lovingly by all.

When it is at last time for them to take their meal, Percy stands, raising his glass to the ceiling in toast.  They are the first words Vax can hear clearly through the pane.

“Thank you all for coming.  Every year for New Dawn, my father would remind us of the trials we faced over the past year.  It is a custom I have held until now.  Cassandra and I agree, this is a time to remember our successes and our joys, not our sorrows.  So tonight, we set aside the old tradition and begin anew.  To each of you – Vox Machina is more than the seven who sealed away Vecna.  Vox Machina is every one of you we call family or friend, your families, and your friends.  And I don’t think we ever thanked you enough.

“And so, I raise my glass to Vox Machina.  We will always hold you close and dear to our hearts.”

In unison, every glass is raised.

A bell tolls from the newly erected clock tower.

Vax turns towards it to see the hands striking midnight, but only sees his Mistress.  The tendrils of her hair stretch out to every number on the clock and into the night sky.

Her white hand reaches out for him, “Come, my champion.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Can you spot the Mercer characters in each section?)


End file.
